Magnhild and Dust by Bjrnstjerne Bjrnson

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Title: Magnhild Dust

Author: Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson

Translator: Rasmus B. Anderson

Release Date: September 9, 2010 [EBook #33683]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1

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Contents

PAGE

PREFACE.
3

MAGNHILD.

CHAPTER I.
9

CHAPTER II.
17

CHAPTER III.
30

CHAPTER IV.
56

CHAPTER V.
66

CHAPTER VI.
78

CHAPTER VII.
102

CHAPTER VIII.
130

CHAPTER IX
133

CHAPTER X.
144

CHAPTER XI.
177

CHAPTER XII.
188

CHAPTER XIII.
203

CHAPTER XIV.
220

DUST.

CHAPTER I.
227

CHAPTER II.
232

CHAPTER III.
243

CHAPTER IV.
251

CHAPTER V.
259

CHAPTER VI.
277

CHAPTER VII.
287

MAGNHILD

DUST

Title Page

WORKS OF

BJÖRNSTJERNE BJÖRNSON

PATRIOTS EDITION

Magnhild

Dust

Translated from the Norse

By

Rasmus B. Anderson

NEW YORK

DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY

Copyright, 1882,

By HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO.

All rights reserved.

PREFACE.

"Magnhild" was planned during the summer of 1873, while the translator accompanied Mr. Björnson on a journey

across Norway. The story is located in Lærdalen and Skarlie's home is in Lærdalsören, a small town at the head of one
of the branches of the far-famed Sognefjord on the west coast. I well remember with what care the author made his
observations. The story was written the following winter in Rome, but was not published until 1877, when it appeared in
the original in Copenhagen and in a German translation in the Rundschau simultaneously.

The reader will see that "Magnhild" is a new departure, and marks a new epoch in Björnson's career as a writer of

fiction. It is but justice to say that Mr. Björnson himself looks upon this as one of his less finished works, and yet I
believe that many of his American readers will applaud the manner in which he has here championed the rights of a
woman when she has become united with such a man as Skarlie.

The celebration, on the 10th of August, 1882, of the twenty-fifth anniversary since the publication of "Synnöve

Solbakken," was a great success. The day was celebrated by his friends in all parts of Scandinavia and by many of his
admirers in Germany, France, and Italy. At Aulestad (his home in Norway), more than two hundred of his personal
friends from the Scandinavian countries were assembled, among whom may be mentioned the eminent Swedish
journalist Hedlund, the Danish poet Drachmann, and the Norwegian author Kristofer Janson. Over Aulestad, which
was handsomely decorated, floated Norwegian, Danish, Swedish, and American flags. There was a great banquet, at
which speeches and poems were not wanting. Mr. Björnson received a number of valuable presents and countless
telegrams from Norway, Sweden, Denmark, Germany, France, Italy, England, and America.

This volume closes the present series of translations of Björnson's works. The seven volumes[1] now published

contain all the novels and short stories that Björnson has written. His other works are, as shown in the biographical
introduction to "Synnöve Solbakken," chiefly dramas.

[1] The first edition of Björnson's writings, from which the present edition is arranged, was in

seven volumes. "Magnhild" formed the seventh volume, and the present preface is reprinted as it
there stood.

Being thus about to send my last Björnson manuscript to the publishers, I desire to express my hearty thanks to the

press and to the public for the generous reception they have given these stories as they have appeared one by one.
Those who are acquainted with Björnson's original and idiomatic style can appreciate the many difficulties his translators
have had to contend with. I am fully conscious of my shortcomings and am particularly aware of my failure to transmit
the peculiar national flavor of Björnson's style, but I have done my best, and have turned his phrases into as good
English as I could command. Others might have been more successful, but they could not have taken more pains, nor
could they have derived more pleasure from the work than I have found in it. To Auber Forestier, who has kindly
assisted me in the translation of the whole series, I once more extend my hearty thanks. Without her able help the work
could not have progressed so rapidly. Finally, I commend "Magnhild" to the tender mercy of the critic and to the good-
will of the reader, and say adieu!

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RASMUS B. ANDERSON.

Asgard, Madison, Wisconsin.

November, 1882.

MAGNHILD.

CHAPTER I.

The landscape has high, bold mountains, above which are just passing the remnants of a storm. The valley is narrow

and continually winding. Coursing through it is a turbulent stream, on one side of which there is a road. At some
distance up the slopes farms are spread; the buildings are mostly low and unpainted, yet numerous; heaps of mown hay
and fields of half ripe grain are dotted about.

When the last curve of the valley is left behind the fjord becomes visible. It lies sparkling beneath an uplifting fog. So

completely is it shut in by mountains that it looks like a lake.

Along the road there jogs at the customary trot a horse with a cariole-skyds.[2] In the cariole may be seen a

waterproof coat and a south-wester, and between these a beard, a nose, and a pair of spectacles. Lashed to the back
seat is a trunk, and seated on this, with her back to the cariole, is a full-grown "skyds"-girl, snugly bundled up in a
kerchief. She sits there dangling her coarsely-shod feet. Her arms are tucked in under the kerchief. Suddenly she bursts
out with: "Magnhild! Magnhild!"

[2] Conveyance.

The traveler turned to look after a tall woman in a waterproof cloak who had just walked past. He had caught a

glimpse of a delicately-outlined face, beneath a hood which was drawn over the brow; now he saw the owner standing
with her forefinger in her mouth, staring. As he was somewhat persistent in his gaze, she blushed.

"I will step in just as soon as I put up the horse," called out the skyds-girl.

They drove on.

"Who was that, my dear?" asked the traveler.

"She is the wife of the saddler down at yonder point," was the reply.

In a little while they had advanced far enough to gain a view of the fjord and the first houses on the point. The skyds-

girl reined in the horse and jumped down from the trunk. She first attended to the animal's appearance, and then busied
herself with her own toilet. It had ceased raining, and she removed her kerchief, folded it, and stowed it away in a little
pocket in front of the cariole. Then thrusting her fingers under her head-kerchief she tried to arrange her hair, which
hung in matted locks over her cheeks.

"She had such a singular look,"—he pointed over his shoulders.

The girl fixed her eyes on him, and she began to hum. Presently she interrupted herself with,—

"Do you remember the land-slide you passed a few miles above here?"

"I passed so many land-slides."

She smiled.

"Yes; but the one I mean is on the other side of a church."

"It was an old land-slide?"

"Yes; it happened long ago. But that is where once lay the gard belonging to her family. It was swept away when she

was eight or nine years old. Her parents, brothers and sisters, and every living thing on the gard, perished. She alone
was saved. The land-slide bore her across the stream, and she was found by the people who hastened to the spot,—
she was insensible."

The traveler became absorbed in thought.

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"She must be destined to something," said he, at last.

The girl looked up. She waited some time, but their eyes did not meet. So she resumed her seat on the trunk, and

they drove on.

The valley widened somewhat in the vicinity of the point; farms were spread over the plain: to the right lay the church

with the churchyard around it; a little farther on the point itself, a small town, with a large number of houses, most of
which were but one story high and were either painted white and red or not painted at all; along the fjord ran the wharf.
A steamer was just smoking there; farther down, by the mouth of the river, might be seen a couple of old brigs taking in
their cargoes.

The church was new, and showed an attempt at imitating the old Norse wooden church architecture. The traveler

must have had some knowledge of this, for he stopped, gazed a while at the exterior, then alighted, went through the
gateway, and into the church; both gate and door stood open. He was scarcely inside of the building when the bells
began to ring; through the opening he saw a bridal procession coming up from the little town. As he took his departure
the procession was close by the churchyard gate, and by this he stood while it moved in: the bridegroom, an elderly
man, with a pair of large hands and a large face, the bride, a young girl, with a plump, round face, and of a heavy build.
The bridesmaids were all clad in white and wore gloves; not one of them ventured to bestow more than a side glance at
the stranger; most of them stooped, one was hump-backed; there was not one who could truly be said to have a fine
form.

Their male friends lagged behind, in gray, brown, and black felt hats, and long frock coats, pea-jackets, or round-

abouts. Most of them had a lock of hair drawn in front of the ear, and those who had beards wore them to cover the
entire chin. The visages were hard, the mouths usually coarse; most of them had tobacco stains about the corners of
their mouths, and some had cheeks distended with tobacco-quids.

Involuntarily the traveler thought of her in the waterproof cloak. Her history was that of the landscape. Her refined,

unawakened face hung as full of yearning as the mountains of showers; everything that met his eye, both landscape and
people, became a frame for her.

As he approached the road, the skyds-girl hastened to the wayside where the horse was grazing. While she was

tugging at the reins she continued to gaze fixedly at the bridal procession.

"Are you betrothed?" asked the stranger, smiling.

"He who is to have me has no eyes yet," she replied, in the words of a proverb.

"Then, I suppose, you are longing to get beyond your present position," said he, adding: "Is it to America?"

She was surprised; that query was evidently well aimed.

"Is it in order that you may more speedily earn your traveling expenses that you have gone into the skyds line? Do

you get plenty of fees? Hey?"

Now she colored. Without uttering a word in reply, she promptly took her seat on the trunk with her back to the

stranger, before he had stepped into the cariole.

Soon they had neared the white-painted hotels which were situated on either side of the street close by the entrance

to the little town. In front of one of these they paused. By the balustrade above stood a group of carriers, chiefly young
fellows; they had most likely been watching the bridal procession and were now waiting for steamer-bound travelers.
The stranger alighted and went in, while the girl busied herself with unstrapping the trunk. Some one must have offered
her help, for as the traveler approached the window he saw her push from her a great lubberly boy in a short jacket. In
all probability some impertinence had also been offered her and had been repaid in the same coin, for the other carriers
set up a shout of laughter. The girl came walking in with the heavy trunk. The traveler opened the door for her, and she
laughed as she met him. While he was counting out her money to her, he said,—

"I agree with you, Rönnaug, you ought to be off to America as soon as possible."

He now handed her two specie dollars as her fee.

"This is my mite for your fund," said he, gravely.

She regarded him with wide-open eyes and open mouth, took the money, returned thanks, and then put up both

hands to stroke back her hair, for it had again fallen out of place. While thus engaged she dropped some of the coins
she held in one half-closed hand. She stooped to pick them up, and as she did so some of the hooks in her boddice
gave way. This loosened her kerchief and one end fell out, for a knot in one corner contained something heavy. While
readjusting this she again dropped her money. She got off at last, however, with all her abundance, and was assailed
with a volley of rude jests. This time she made no reply; but she cast a shy glance into the hotel as she drove the horse
past, full trot.

It was the traveler's lot to see her once more; for as he passed down to the steamer, later in the day, she was

standing with her back turned toward the street, at a door over which hung a sign-board bearing the inscription:

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"Skarlie, Saddler." As he drew nearer he beheld Magnhild in the inner passage. She had not yet removed her
waterproof cloak, although the rain had long since ceased. Even the hood was still drawn over her head. Magnhild was
the first to espy the stranger, and she drew farther back into the house; Rönnaug turned, and then she too moved into
the passage.

That evening Rönnaug's steamer ticket was bought; for the sum was complete. Magnhild did not undress after

Rönnaug had gone home late in the evening. She sat in a large arm-chair in the little low room, or restlessly paced the
floor. And once, with her heavy head pressed against the window pane, she said half aloud,—

"Then she must be destined to something."

CHAPTER II.

She had heard these words before.

The first time it was in the churchyard that blustering winter day her fourteen relatives were buried,—all whom she

had loved, both parents and grandparents, and brothers and sisters. In fancy she saw the scene again! The wind had
here and there swept away the snow, the pickets of the fence stood out in sharp prominence, huge rocks loomed up
like the heads of monsters whose bodies were covered by the snow-drifts. The wind whistled behind the little group of
mourners through the open church porch whose blinds had been taken out, and down from the old wooden belfry came
the clanging toll of the bell, like one cry of anguish after another.

The people that were gathered together were blue with the cold; they wore mittens and their garments were closely

buttoned up. The priest appeared in sea-boots and had on a skin suit beneath his gown; his hands also were eased in
large mittens, and he vigorously fought the air round about him with these. He waved one of them toward Magnhild.

"This poor child," said he, "remained standing on her feet, and with her little sled in her hand she was borne

downward and across the frozen stream,—the sole being the Lord saw fit to save. To what is she destined?"

She rode home with the priest, sitting on his lap. He had commended her to the care of the parish, and took her

home with him "for the present," in order to set a good example. She nestled up to his fur overcoat, with her small cold
hands inside of his huge mittens, beside his soft, plump hands. And all the while she kept thinking: "What am I destined
to, I wonder?"

She presumed that her mind would become clear on this point when she got into the house. But nothing met her eye

here she had not seen before until she entered the inner room, where a piano which some one was just playing in the
highest degree attracted her.

But for that very reason she forgot the thought she had brought in with her.

In this household there were two daughters, heavy-looking girls, with small round heads and long, thick braids of light

hair. They had recently been provided with a governess, a pale, though fleshy person, with her neck more exposed and
her sleeves more open than Magnhild had ever seen in any one before. Her voice sounded as though it needed clearing,
and Magnhild involuntarily coughed several times; but this was of no avail. The governess asked Magnhild's name and
inquired if she knew how to read, to which Magnhild replied in the affirmative. Her whole family had been noted for
their love of reading. And then the governess proposed, still with the same husky after-tone in her voice, that she should
be allowed to share the instructions of the little girls, in order to spur them on. Magnhild was one year older than the
elder.

The mistress of the house was sitting by, engaged with her embroidery. She now glanced up at Magnhild and said,

"With pleasure," then bent over her work again. She was a person of medium size, neither thin nor stout, and had a
small head with fair hair. The priest, who was heavy and corpulent, came down-stairs after removing his gown; he was
smoking, and as he crossed the floor, he said, "There comes a man with fish," and passed out of the room again.

The youngest girl once more attacked her scales. Magnhild did not know whether she should remain where she was,

or go back to the kitchen. She sat on the wood-box by the stove tormented with the uncertainty, when dinner was
announced in the adjoining room. All work was put aside, and the little one at the piano closed the instrument. Now
when Magnhild was alone and heard the rattling of the knives, she began to cry; for she had not yet eaten a morsel that
day. During the meal the priest came out from the dining-room; for it had been decided that he had not bought enough
fish. He opened the window and called out to the man to wait until dinner was over. As he turned to go back into the
dining-room he espied the little one on the wood-box.

"Are you hungry?" asked he.

The child made no reply. He had lived long enough among the peasants to know that her silence meant "yes," and so

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taking her by the hand he led her to the table, where room was silently made for her.

In the afternoon she went coasting with the little girls, and then joined them in their studies and had a lesson in Bible

history with them; after this she partook of the afternoon lunch with them, and then played with them until they were
called to supper, which they all ate at the same table. She slept that night on a lounge in the dining-room and took part
the next day in the duties of the priest's daughters.

She had no clothes except those she had on; but the governess made over an old dress for her; some articles of old

linen belonging to one of the little girls were given to her, and a pair of their mother's boots. The lounge she had slept on
was removed from the dining-room, because it occupied the space needed for some shoemakers who were to "see the
household well shod." It was placed in the kitchen, but was in the way there; then in the bed-room of the maid-servants,
but there the door continually struck against it; finally it was carried up to the nursery. Thus it was that Magnhild came to
eat, work, and sleep with the priest's daughters; and as new clothes were never made for her she naturally fell to
wearing theirs.

Quite as much by chance she began to play the piano. It was discovered that she had more talent for music than the

daughters of the house, so it was thought best that she should learn, in order to help them. Moreover, she grew tall, and
developed a fine voice for singing. The governess took great pains in teaching her to sing by note; she did so at first
merely in the mechanical way she did everything, later because the remarkable skill in reading at sight which her pupil
developed under her guidance proved a diversion to them all in their mountain solitude. The priest could lie on the sofa
(the place he most frequently occupied) and laugh aloud when he heard Magnhild running all sorts of exercises up and
down like a squirrel in a tree. The result of this, so far as Magnhild was concerned, was that the young girl learned—not
more music, as one might have supposed, but—basket-making.

The fact was that about this time there spread, like an epidemic among the people, the idea that skill in manual

industries should be cultivated among the peasants, and propagators of the new doctrine appeared also in this parish.
Magnhild was chosen as the first pupil; she was thought to have the most "dexterity." The first thing taught was basket-
making, then double spinning, then weaving, especially of the more artistic kinds, and after this embroidery, etc., etc.
She learned all these things very rapidly, that is to say, she learned zealously as long as she was gaining an insight into
each; further development did not interest her. But as she was henceforth expected to teach others, grown people as
well as children, it became a settled habit for her to repair twice each week to the public school where many were
assembled. When anything had once become part of her daily routine she thought no more about it. The house that had
given her shelter was responsible for this.

The mistress of the house made her daily regulation visits to the kitchen, cellar, and stables, the rest of the time she

embroidered; the whole house was covered with embroidery. She might be taken for a fat spider, with a little round
head, spinning its web over chairs, tables, beds, sledges, and carts. Her voice was rarely heard; she was seldom
addressed by any one.

The priest was much older than his wife. His face was characterized by its small proportion of nose, chin, and eyes,

and its very large share of all else belonging to it. He had fared badly at his examination, and had been compelled to
support himself by teaching until, when he was advancing in years, he had married one of his former pupils, a lady with
quite a nice property. Then he betook himself to seeking a clerical appointment, "the one thing in which he had shown
perseverance," as he was himself in the habit of playfully remarking. After a ten years' search he had succeeded in
getting a call (not long since) to his present parish, and he could scarcely hope for a better one. He passed most of his
time in lying on the sofa reading, chiefly novels, but also newspapers and periodicals.

The governess always sat in the same chair in which Magnhild had seen her the first day, took the same walk to the

church and back each day, and never failed to be ready for her duties on the stroke of the clock. She gradually
increased in weight until she became excessively stout; she continued to wear her neck bare and her sleeves open,
furthermore to speak in the same husky voice, which no effort on her part had ever yet been able to clear.

The priest's daughters became stout and heavy like their father, although they had small round heads like their

mother. Magnhild and they lived as friends, in other words, they slept in the same room, and worked, played, and ate
together.

There were never any ideas afloat in this parish. If any chanced to find their way there from without they got no

farther than the priest's study. The priest was not communicative. At the utmost he read aloud to his family some new or
old novel that he had found diverting.

One evening they were all sitting round the table, and the priest, having yielded to the entreaties of the united family,

was reading aloud the "Pickwick Club."

The kitchen door slowly opened and a large bald head, with a snub nose and smiling countenance, was thrust in. A

short leg in very wide trousers was next introduced, and this was followed by a crooked and consequently still shorter
one. The whole figure stooped as it turned on the crooked leg to shut the door. The intruder thus presented to the party
the back of the before mentioned large head, with its narrow rim of hair, a pair of square-built shoulders, and an
extraordinarily large seat, only half covered by a pea-jacket. Again he turned in a slanting posture toward the assembled
party, and once more presented his smiling countenance with its snub-nose. The young girls bowed low over their

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work, a suppressed titter arose first from one piece of sewing and then from another.

"Is this the saddler?" asked the priest, rising to his feet.

"Yes," was the reply, as the new-comer limped forward, holding out a hand so astonishingly large and with such

broad round finger tips that the priest was forced to look at it as he took it in his own. The hand was offered to the
others; and when it came to Magnhild's turn she burst out laughing just as her hand disappeared within it. One peal of
laughter after another was heard and suppressed. The priest hastened to remark that they were reading the "Pickwick
Club."

"Aha!" observed the saddler, "there is enough to make one laugh in that book."

"Have you read it?" asked the priest.

"Yes; when I was in America. I read most of the English writers; indeed, I have them all in my house now," he

answered, and proceeded to give an account of the cheap popular editions that could be obtained in America.

The laughter of young girls is not easily subdued; it was still ready to bubble over when, after the saddler was

furnished with a pipe, the reading was resumed. Now to be sure there was a pretext. After a while the priest grew tired
and wanted to close the book, but the saddler offered to continue the reading for him, and was allowed to do so. He
read in a dry, quiet manner, and with such an unfamiliar pronunciation of the names of the personages and localities
introduced that the humor of the text became irresistible; even the priest joined in the laughter which no one now
attempted to restrain. It never occurred to the girls to ask themselves why they were all obliged to laugh; they were still
laughing when they went up-stairs to go to bed, and while undressing they imitated the saddler's walk, bowed and
talked as he did, pronounced the foreign words with his English accent. Magnhild was the most adroit in mimicking; she
had observed him the most closely.

At that time she was fifteen, in her sixteenth year.

The next day the girls passed every free moment in the dining-room, which had now been transformed into a work-

shop. The saddler told them of a sojourn of several years in America, and of travels in England and Germany; he talked
without interrupting his work and with a frequent intermingling of jests. His narratives were accompanied by the
incessant tittering of his listeners. They were scarcely aware themselves how they gradually ceased laughing at him and
laughed instead at the witty things he said; neither did they observe until later how much they learned from him. He was
so greatly missed by the girls when he left that more than half of their time together was occupied in conversation about
him; this lasted for many days after he was gone, and never wholly ceased.

There were two things which had made the strongest impression on Magnhild. The first was the English and German

songs the saddler had sung for them. She had paid little attention to the text, unless perhaps occasionally; but how the
melodies had captivated her!

While singing hymns one Sunday they had first noticed that Skarlie had a fine voice. Thenceforth he was obliged to

sing for them constantly. These foreign melodies of his fluttering thither from a fuller, richer life, freer conditions, larger
ideas than their own, clung to Magnhild's fancy the entire summer. They were the first pictures which had awakened
actual yearning within her breast. It may also be said that for the first time she comprehended what song was. As she
was singing her interminable scales one day, before beginning her studies in singing from note, she came to a full
realization of the fact that this song without melody was to her like wings beating against a cage: it fluttered up and down
against walls, windows, doors, in perpetual and fruitless longing, aye, until at last it sank like the cobwebs, over
everything in the room. She could sit alone out of doors with his songs. While she was humming them, the forest hues
dissolved into one picture; and that she had never discovered before. The density, the vigor in the tree-tops, above and
below the tree-tops, over the entire mountain wall, as it were, overwhelmed her; the rushing of the waters of the stream
attracted her.

The second thing which had made so deep an impression on her, and which was blended with all the rest, was

Skarlie's story of how he had become lame. In America, when he was a young man, he had undertaken to carry a boy
twelve years old from a burning house; he had fallen with the boy beneath the ruins. Both were extricated, Skarlie with a
crushed limb, the boy unscathed. That boy was now one of the most noted men of America.

It was his lot to be saved, "he was destined to something."

This reminder again! The thought of her own fate had heretofore been shrouded in the wintry mantle of the

churchyard, amid frost, weeping, and harsh clanging of bells; it had been something sombre. Now it flitted onward to
large cities beyond the seas, among ships, burning houses, songs, and great destinies. From this time forth she dreamed
of what she was destined to be as something far distant and great.

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CHAPTER III.

Late in the autumn all three girls were confirmed. This was such a matter of course to them all that their thoughts

were chiefly busied with what they should wear on the day of the ceremony. Magnhild, who had never yet had a
garment cut out and made expressly for herself, wondered whether an outfit would now be prepared for her. No. The
younger girls were furnished with new silk dresses; an old black dress that had become too tight for the priest's wife
was made over for Magnhild.

It was too short both in the waist and in the skirt; but Magnhild scarcely noticed this. She was provided by the

governess with a little colored silk neckerchief and a silver brooch; she borrowed the every-day shawl of the mistress of
the house; a pair of gloves were loaned her by the governess.

Her inner preparations were not much more extensive than the outer ones.

The day glided tranquilly by without any special emotion. Religious sentiments at the parsonage, as well as elsewhere

in the parish, were matters of calm custom. Some tears were shed in church, the priest offered wine and a toast at table,
and there was a little talk about what should now be done with Magnhild. This last topic so affected Magnhild that after
coffee she went out and sat down alone. She gazed toward the broad rocky path of the land-slide on the verdure-clad
mountain, then toward the mighty mass of débris in the midst of the plain, for it was there her home had stood.

Her little brothers and sisters appeared before her, one fair, bright face after another. Her mother came too; and her

melancholy eye dwelt lingeringly on Magnhild; even the lines about the mouth were visible. The fine psalm-singing of her
mother's gentle voice floated around Magnhild now. There had been sung in church that day one of the hymns her
mother used to sing. Once more, too, her father sat on the bench, bowed over the silver work in which he was a
master. A book or a newspaper lay at his side; he paused in his work now and then, stole a glance at the page before
him, or turned a leaf. His long, delicately cut face inclined occasionally toward the family sitting-room and its inmates.
The aged grandparents formed part of the home circle. The grandmother tottered off after some little dainty for
Magnhild, while the old grandfather was telling the child a story. The dog, shaggy and gray, lay stretching himself on the
hearth. His howl had been the last living sound Magnhild had heard behind her as she was carried downward across the
stream. The memory of that awful day once more cast over her childhood the pall of night, thunder, and convulsions of
the earth. Covering her face with her hands, she burst into tears.

The saddler's ballads came floating toward her, bringing a sense of want with their obscure dream images. And there

drifted past her a motley throng of those half-comprehended songs and the anecdotes upon which she had often placed
false interpretations, until, exhausted by the thoughts, emotions, and yearnings of the day, with an aching void within and
a dull feeling of resignation, she feel asleep.

In the evening Rönnaug, with whom they had become acquainted during the confirmation instructions, made her

appearance; she was out at service in the neighborhood and had a holiday in honor of the occasion. She brought with
her a whole budget of gossip concerning the love affairs of the parish, and the inexperienced girls sat with wondering
eyes listening. It was she who caused the youngest girl to tear her new silk dress. Rönnaug could roll down hill with such
incomprehensible speed that she was induced to repeat the feat several times, and this finally led the priest's daughter to
try her skill.

Hereafter Rönnaug often dropped in of an evening when her work was done. They all took delight in her wild

exuberance of spirits. She was as hearty and as plump as a young foal; she could scarcely keep the clothes on her back
because she was all the time tearing them to tatters, and she had never-ceasing trouble with her hair, which would keep
falling over her face because she never had it done up properly. When she laughed, and that was nearly all the time, she
tossed back her head, and through two rows of pearly teeth, white as those of a beast of prey, could be seen far down
her throat.

In the autumn Skarlie came again. There was a difference between the reception now given him and the former one.

The three girls surrounded his sledge, they carried in his luggage, notwithstanding his laughing resistance, their laughter
accompanied him as he stood in the passage taking off his furs.

Questions without number were showered like hail upon him the first time they sat with him in the work-room; the

girls had an accumulation of treasured-up doubts and queries about things he had told them on his previous visit, and
many other perplexing themes which they considered him able to solve. On very few topics did Skarlie hold the
prevailing opinions of the parish, but he had a way of deftly turning the subject with a joke when pressed too closely for
his precise views. When alone with Magnhild he expressed himself more freely; at first he did so cautiously, but
gradually increased his plainness of speech.

Magnhild had never viewed her surroundings with critical eyes; she would now laugh heartily with Skarlie over the

priest's last sermon, or his indolent life; now over the spider-like activity of the mistress of the house, because it was all
described so comically. At the "fat repose" of the governess, even at the "yellow, round heads" of her young friends,
Magnhild could now laugh; for the humor with which everything was delineated was so surprisingly original; she did not
perceive that this jesting was by degrees undermining the very ground she stood upon.

The quite usual amusement in the country of teasing a young girl about being in love was, meanwhile, directed rather

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unexpectedly toward Magnhild; she was called "the saddler's wife," because she passed so much time in his society.
This reached Skarlie's ears and immediately he too began to call her his "wife," his "tall wife," his "blonde wife," his "very
young wife."

The following summer the priest's daughters went to the city for increased opportunities of culture. The governess

remained "for the present" at the parsonage.

The saddler came once more in the autumn to complete his work. Magnhild was now, of course, more frequently

alone with him than before. He was merrier than ever. One joke that was often repeated by him was about journeying
round the world with "his young wife." They met with an immense number of traveling adventures, and they saw many
remarkable sights, all of which were so accurately described by Skarlie that they attained the value of actual
experiences. But the most ludicrous picture he drew represented the two tramping through the country: Skarlie limping
on before with a traveling satchel, Magnhild following in a waterproof cloak and with an umbrella in her hand, grumbling
at the heat, dust, and thirst, weary and heartily disgusted with him Then, having reached their journey's end, they rested
in Skarlie's little home in the little town, where Magnhild had everything her own way and lived like a princess all the rest
of her life.

It would be impossible to describe the countenance of the priest when the saddler appeared in his study one evening,

and taking a seat in front of him asked, after a few cordial, pleasant remarks by way of introduction, whether the priest
would object to his marrying Magnhild. The priest was lying on the sofa smoking; his pipe dropped from his mouth, his
hand sank with it, his fat face relaxed until it resembled a dough-like mass, in which the eyes peeped forth as wholly
devoid of thought as two raisins; suddenly he gave a start that set a quantity of springs beneath him to creaking and
grating, and the book that lay upside down on his knee fell. The saddler picked up the volume smiling, and turned over
the leaves. The priest had risen to his feet.

"What does Magnhild have to say to this?" asked he.

The saddler looked up with a smile.

"Of course I should not have asked if she were not likely to give her consent," said he.

The priest put his pipe in his mouth, and strode up and down the floor, puffing away. Gradually he grew calmer, and

without slackening his speed, he observed:—

"To be sure I do not know what is to become of the girl."

Once more the saddler raised his eyes from the book whose leaves he was turning over, and now laying it aside, he

remarked:—

"It is, you know, rather a sort of adoption than a marriage. Down yonder at my house she can develop into whatever

she pleases."

The priest looked at him, took a puff at his pipe, paced the floor, and puffed again.

"Aye, to be sure! You are, I believe, a wealthy man?"

"Well, if not precisely wealthy, I am sufficiently well provided to get married."

Here Skarlie laughed.

But there was something in his laugh, something which did not quite please the priest. Still less did he like the tone of

indifference with which Skarlie seemed to treat the whole affair. Least of all did he like being so taken by surprise.

"I must speak with my wife about this," said he, and groaned. "That I must," he added decidedly, "and with

Magnhild," came as an afterthought.

"Certainly," said the other, as he rose to take leave.

A little while later, the priest's wife was sitting where the saddler had sat. Both hands lay idly open on her lap, while

her eyes followed her spouse as he steamed back and forth.

"Well, what do you think?" he urged, pausing in front of her.

Receiving no reply, he moved on again.

"He is far too old," she finally said.

"And surely very sly," added the priest, and then pausing again in front of his wife, he whispered: "No one really

knows where he comes from, or why he chooses to settle here. He might have a fine workshop in a large city—
wealthy, and a smart dog!"

The priest did not use the choicest language in his daily discourse.

"To think she should allow herself to be so beguiled!" whispered the wife.

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"Beguiled! Just the word—beguiled!" repeated the priest, snapping his fingers. "Beguiled!" and off he went in a cloud

of smoke.

"I am so sorry for her," remarked the wife, and the words were accompanied by a few tears.

This touched the priest, and he said: "See here, mother, we will talk with her, both of us!" then strode heavily on

again.

Ere long Magnhild stood within the precincts of the study, wondering what could be wanted of her. The priest was

the first to speak:—

"Is it really true, Magnhild, that you have agreed to be the wife of this fellow, the saddler?"

The priest often used the general term "fellow" instead of a proper name.

Magnhild's face became suffused with blushes; in her whole life she could never have been so red before. Both the

priest and his wife interpreted this as a confession.

"Why do you not come to us with such things?" asked the priest, in a vexed tone.

"It is very strange you should act so, Magnhild," said the mistress of the house,—and she wept.

Magnhild was simply appalled.

"Do you really mean to have him?" asked the priest, pausing resolutely in front of her.

Now Magnhild had never been accustomed to being addressed in a confidential tone. When questioned thus closely

she had not the courage to give a frank statement of all that had occurred between her and Skarlie, telling, how this talk
of marriage had commenced as a jest, and that although later she had had a misgiving that it was becoming serious, it
was so continually blended anew with jests that she had not given herself the trouble to protest against it. How could
she, with the priest standing thus before her, enter on so long a story? And so instead she burst into tears.

Well now, the priest did not mean to torment her. What was done could not be undone. He was very sorry for her,

and in the goodness of his heart merely wanted to help her lay a solid foundation to her choice. Skarlie was a man of
considerable means, he said, and she a poor girl; she certainly could not expect a better match, so far as that went.
True, Skarlie was old; but then he had himself said that he designed rather a sort of adoption than a marriage; his only
object was Magnhild's happiness.

But all this was more than Magnhild could bear to listen to, and so she rushed from the room. In the passage she fell

to crying as though her heart would break; she was obliged to go up to the dark garret in order to avoid attracting
attention, and there her grief gradually assumed definite shape. It was not because the saddler wanted her that she was
in such distress; it was because the priest and his wife did not want her.

This was the interpretation she had put on their words.

When the governess was informed of the affair she differed entirely from the mistress of the house, who could not

comprehend Magnhild, for the governess could comprehend the young girl perfectly. Skarlie was a man of fine mind
and very witty. He was rich, jovial, rather homely, to be sure, but that was not of such great consequence down at the
Point. And she adopted this tone in talking with Magnhild when she finally succeeded in getting hold of her. Magnhild
was red with weeping, and burst into a fresh flood of tears; yet not a word did she say.

Somewhat curtly the priest now informed the saddler that as the matter was settled he might as well proceed with the

preparations. The saddler desired this himself; moreover, he was now quite through with his work. Eagerly as he strove
for an opportunity to speak with Magnhild, he even failed to catch a glimpse of her. He was therefore forced to take his
departure without having an interview with her.

During the days which followed Magnhild neither appeared in the sitting-room nor at table. No one attempted to

seek her and talk with her; the governess deemed it quite natural that in the face of so serious a step the young girl
should wish to be alone.

One day the members of the household were surprised by the arrival through the mail of a letter and large package

for Magnhild. The letter read as follows:—

In order to complete our delightful joke, dear Magnhild, I came down here. My house has

been painted this summer, within and without, a joke which now almost looks like earnest—
does it not?

Beds, household furniture, bedding, etc., are articles that I deal in myself, so these I can

purchase from my own stores. When I think of the object I have in view, this becomes the most
delightful business transaction I have ever entered into.

Do you remember how we laughed the time I took your measure in order to prove accurately

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how much too short in the waist your dress was, how much too wide across the shoulders, and
how much too short in the skirt? Just by chance I took a note of your exact measurement, and
according to it I am now having made:—

1 black silk dress (Lyons taffeta).
1 brown (cashmere).
1 blue (of some light woolen material).

As I have always told you, blue is the most becoming color that you can wear.

Such orders cannot be executed without some delay; but the articles shall be sent as speedily

as possible.

For other garments that you may perhaps require I telegraphed to Bergen immediately upon

my arrival here; such things can be obtained there ready-made. You will most likely receive
them by the same mail which brings you this letter.

As you see (and shall further continue to see), there are sundry jokes connected with this

getting married. For instance, I made my will to-day, and in it designated you as my heiress.

With most respectful greetings to the priest and his honored family, I now subscribe myself

Your most obedient jester,

Skarlie.

Magnhild had taken refuge in the garret, with both the letter and the large package. She had plunged forthwith into

the letter, and emerging from its perusal perplexed and frightened, she tore open the package and found many full suits
of everything pertaining to feminine under garments. She scattered them all around her, blushing crimson, angry,
ashamed. Then she sat down and wept aloud.

Now she had courage to speak! She sprang down-stairs to the priest's wife, and throwing her arms about her neck,

whispered, "Forgive me!" thrust the letter into her hand, and disappeared.

The priest's wife did not understand Magnhild's "Forgive me!" but she saw that the young girl was crying and in great

excitement. She took the letter and read it. It was peculiar in form, she thought; yet its meaning was plain enough: it
indicated a sensible, elderly man's prudent forethought, and deserved credit. An old housewife and mother could not be
otherwise than pleased with this, and she carried the letter to the priest. It impressed him in the same way; and he began
to think the girl might be happy with this singular man. The mistress of the house searched everywhere for Magnhild, in
order to tell her that both the priest and herself were of the opinion that Skarlie's conduct promised well. She learned
that Magnhild was in the garret, and so throwing a shawl round her (for it was cold) she went up-stairs. She met the
governess on the way and took her with her. Magnhild was not visible; they saw only the articles of clothing strewn over
floor, chests, and trunks. They collected these together, discussed them, examined them, and pronounced them
admirable. They well knew that such a gift was calculated to embarrass a young girl; but then Skarlie was an elderly
man whose privilege it was to take things in a fatherly way. This they told Magnhild when they finally found her. And she
had no longer the courage to be confidential. This was because the priest's wife, sustained by the governess, spoke
what they deemed sensible words to her. They told her that she must not be proud; she must remember that she was a
poor girl who had neither relatives nor future of her own. In the days which followed, Magnhild fought a hard fight in
secret. But she lacked energy for action. Where could she have gained it? Where could she go since the priest's family
had so evidently grown tired of her?

A little later there arrived a chest containing her dresses and many other articles. Magnhild allowed it to stand

untouched, but the governess, who so well understood this bashfulness, attended to having it opened. She and the
priest's wife drew forth the contents piece by piece, and not long afterwards Magnhild was trying on dress after dress
before the large mirror in the family sitting-room. The doors were locked, the priest's wife and the governess full of zeal.
Finally they came to the black silk dress, and Magnhild gradually ceased to be indifferent. She felt a blushing
gratification in beholding in the glass her own form encompassed in beautiful fine material. She discovered herself, as it
were, point by point. If it chanced to be the face, she had not before this day so fully observed that those she beheld at
her side were without distinct outline, while hers—Her vision had been rendered keen by the sense awakened, in the
twinkling of an eye, by a handsome, well-fitting garment.

This picture of herself floated before her for many days. Fearing to disturb it she avoided the mirror. Once more she

became absorbed in the old dreams, those which bore her across the sea to something strange and great.

But the marriage? At such moments she thrust it from her as though it were a steamer's plank, to be drawn ashore

after serving its purpose. How was this possible? Aye, how many times in the years that followed did she not pause and
reflect! But it always remained alike incomprehensible to her.

She could neither be persuaded to put on one of the new dresses the day Skarlie came, nor to go out to meet him;

on the contrary, she hid herself. Later, and as by chance, she made her appearance. With unvarying consistency she
treated both the marriage and Skarlie as though neither in the least concerned her.

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Skarlie was in high spirits; the fact was both the priest and his wife took pains to make amends for Magnhild's lack of

courtesy, and he reciprocated in the most winning manner. The governess declared him to be decidedly amiable.

The next evening Magnhild sat in the dining-room arranging some articles belonging to the industrial school that must

now be sent back. She was alone, and Skarlie entered softly and smiling, and slowly closing the door behind him took a
seat at her side. He ta...